Sitting alone. The cliffs and peaks of the self. Got lost in my own valleys. That old moon again: the shadows lengthen like a tide through the night and are longest just before dawn. Who starts at the zenith and skips the ascendance? No one. There’s an echo traveling the empty tracts and wastes. A finger trailed in the water leaves no trace. But that’s what we’ve been about all along, me and the dark minnows kissing my heels. Chiaroscuro of waking life, it’s what isn’t in the light that makes the remainder so alluring.